Thankful
by Milady Oakenshield
Summary: Among the dead and the dying, a father begs Valar to spare his son.


**This one-shot takes place within the same time frame as Casualties of War, though it isn't necessary to read that one.**

"_When a father gives to his son, both laugh; when a son gives to his father, both cry_."  
>-William Shakespeare<p>

. .

**Close your eyes,  
>have no fear,<br>the monsters gone,  
>he's on the run and your daddy's here<strong>

**Before you go to sleep,**  
><strong>say a little prayer,<strong>  
><strong>every day in every way,<strong>  
><strong>it's getting better and better<strong>

**Beautiful Boy –John Lennon**

. .

A red sun rises; much blood has been spilt this night. His guard has been divided. The dead are numbered. The dying soon to join them. And the wounded being herd into camp like cattle. He is lucky to escape mortal injury, luckier than some. Some of those lucky few weren't even considered lucky at all, not in the least; they were scared, physically, mentally, and for the rest of their immortal lives would bear the weight of this one battle.

But for Thranduil, king of the woodland realm, someone who has seen more than enough death in his lifetime, someone who has buried more than enough of his kin, pined for the loss of a queen, a wife, a mother his heart ached for, there is something far more personal to him when it comes to the lives that counted now. The here and now.

Of all the tents in the camp, he only stands outside one of them; he's not gone in for several minutes, unable to bear what he might see. He has tried. He's gone as far as reaching for the canvas flap, but at the last second he sucks in a breath and recoils. And then he buries his face in his hands. For the first time in his thousands years of living, he is afraid. His is afraid of what might happen when he finally does stomach the courage to walk into that tent. His internal demons battle inside his head. They're screaming at him. He closes his eyes and attempts to will them away. His heart begins to pound. It's too loud. Too heavy.

He does walk in. Eventually. His right hand drops from his face, and he reaches for the canvas flap. His fingers are almost shaking when he pulls it back.

When the see their king, they bow low. But he's not looking at them. He looks past them. To the figure prone on the cot. He looks almost lifeless. And gradually, the king sweeps past his healers; they're the best, so he's told. They stand and then watch him. He drops into a chair next to the bed and then he reaches for the bloodied hand. The red marries the fleshy pink of his skin.

It's slow, but he still has a heartbeat. Just barely. It would be easy to assume he was dead if not for the steady movement of his chest, which Thranduil watches with eyes like a hawk. The healers are watching him, watching the younger. They have other wounded to tend to. And they wouldn't utter a word at the tears rimming their king's eyes.

"_Your son is badly wounded, my Lord,_" the messenger had told him, sporting bruises of his own up and down the left side of his face, his neck, and trickles of blood trailing from his hairline.

Thranduil closes his eyes. It's an attempt to hide his unshed tears. He's done well enough. But he feels an immense pressure of guilt. And sorrow. Admittedly, he had never been the father he should have been. Years of his son's life had been spent more with a heart of stone. Just a shell of the carefree, smiling man he had once been. Instead of giving his son the kind of love, and support, and protectiveness a father should give his child, Thranduil had been much more distant.

He blames the death of his wife for that. Well, no. That's not fair of him. To use his dead wife as a crutch. His son was barely a teenager. And then all of a sudden the father he once knew to be so loving, the one to read to him at night, the one to gift him with his first bow, and teach him to shoot, was gone. There was no one to blame for it but himself. And the one sparkle of light in his son's bright ocean blue eyes had gone. The carefree boy brought into this world was no longer himself. He grew up alone, cold and shit-scared.

Thranduil puts a hand on his son's hair, all dirtied and bloodied and unkempt. He runs his fingers over his son's forehead. And very poorly tries to untangle the knots. He presses a kiss to the boy's pale skin, then nuzzled their foreheads together.

'_It's not fair_' he says to himself.

And his conscious responds, '_Of course it isn't_' without even comprehending what the king was losing. Or about to lose. Like it didn't even care. And it was continuing to sneer at the elven king. '_You were a pompous dick to him all his life…_'

'_I was_," and he realizes that now, '_I admit it. I have no one to blame but myself_.'

'_Oh what your wife would say to you now_.'

'_Shut up_!'

'_Why? Because you know I'm right… or because your son lays there on his death bed and only now do you realize what he means to you?_' The voice in the back of his head was taunting him. It wanted to bring him to this point. And it was delighted. The tears in the king's eyes is what it craved. '_Do you remember the promise you made your wife? Before she died. As you held her hand. As you felt her life slip away from you…_'

Thranduil's heart tightens in his chest. '_…stop… please…_ '

The voice laughed. '_Why? Am I bothering you? Is what I'm saying bothering you? It's all true, you know. All of it. You are a shit father. You don't even deserve him and he has loved you unconditionally. No wonder why he is so shelte-_'

'_You're right…_'

'_I'm sorry. I didn't get that last bit. What did you say?_'

The elven king tightened his grip around his son's hand. '_…you're right. About everything. And I don't deserve him. Valar gave me a son… and I abused that. I am a horrible person. And now he… he is fading before my eyes and I- oh, please… do not take him from me. You can take the breath from my body, you can take the very heart from my chest… you can kill me instead but please… do not take my son away from me… _'

He was gone. Surely he was dead. And Thranduil would return to his realm with nothing left to live for. The jewels in the dwarven halls didn't matter anymore. Not now that his son, his only child, the only reason he continued living after his wife was killed, would be joining her, and he had failed not only in his promise to her but as a father. It was his fault. All of it. And he…

The elven prince suddenly took a breath. And then another. And another. "…ada…" the voice was very soft, very weak, hoarse and almost completely non-existent.

Thranduil did not believe it at first. He lifts his head just enough, and then he sees his son opens his eyes, and once again he sees the perfectly blue eyes staring back at him. His son takes another breath, and tightens his fingers around his father's hand.

Legolas sucks in a breath, swallowing slowly, "…why are your eyes wet, ada…?" his body felt very weak and fragile, not like the graceful and limber one he was used to. He closes his eyes again and draws another breath that rattles his aching ribcage.

It was then that Thranduil realizes the unshed tears he had been hiding had since fallen from his eyes. But it mattered not. He kissed his son's brow and thanked Valar that his heart was still beating.

Once the healers had tended to him and his life out of danger, Legolas slept, as ordered, to regain his strength, and Thranduil refused to leave his son's side.

**A/N: I realize this must seem a little out of character for Thranduil but I always got the impression he was just a cold, almost heartless dickhead, and you kind of get that feeling that he and his son have a very shattered relationship in DOS. I'd like to think that this relationship was repaired before the events of FotR. I want to believe that Thranduil genuinely does love his son but probably has forgotten how to express that since the death of his wife, which I'd think would have been when Legolas was still very young, if not during childbirth, because nothing if ever mentioned of her.**

**This is my very first Legolas+Thranduil story so please tell me if it sucks. I could use the feedback. I'm continuing to work on Kiliel Ficlets, and soon I'll be working on a few more. I've got some ideas in my head about a story revolving around Tauriel dealing with Kili's death and how she eventually comes to accept it. I have another about Thorin as he plays both uncle and father to his nephews (been done to death, I know, sue me).**

**Please read and review. I'd much appreciate it! :)**


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